


Strange Superstitions

by HRH After Dark (hannahrhen)



Series: Strange Customs [2]
Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Barbarian Thor, Birching, Butt Plugs, Chastity Device, Collars, Crack, Fondling, Groping, Inappropriate Erections, Inappropriate Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Master/Servant, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Nudity, Sex Toys, War Trophy Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/HRH%20After%20Dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki becomes the centerpoint of the horny villagers’ superstitions, and Thor is none too pleased. (Loki, however, still doesn’t really seem to mind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Superstitions

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, a sequel to the X-Rated Hobbiton story. Because I came to have some free time this week, and this is what I did with it!

Loki would have expected the spankings to taper off once he had been formally—erm— _claimed_ by the village chieftain.

The gods knew, news of their fucking had spread like fire through the tribe, as one suggestive wink or nod followed another the next day.

The spankings, however, continued at their normal frequency. If anything, there was a slight uptick, for awhile, as cackling old women would interrogate him on Thor’s reputed prowess and preferred techniques while polishing his upturned bottom with their handmade tawses.

Loki couldn’t really bring himself to mind, much. It was the custom, after all.

If Loki exaggerated Thor’s abilities in his choked-out answers, between swats, just to help Thor’s reputation among his people, well—

Well, he didn’t actually have to. Thor was, in fact, a _god_ in bed, supernatural in his talents and endurance. It was the most pleasant surprise of Loki’s months of captivity.

The next development in their story, though, was also surprising, as Loki found himself once again presented on the dais, some weeks later, displaying his latest adornment while Thor emphatically, and loudly, and churlishly, dressed down the gathered throngs.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The first time it happened, a few days after the—um— _claiming_ , Loki was certain it was a mistake. Someone had stumbled, in the market, or had thought they were reaching for a soft, irregularly shaped gourd, and had accidentally gripped his flaccid, cloth-swathed cock instead.

It was an honest mistake, he knew, though he couldn’t find the owner of the hand through the marketplace crowd pressed in around him, and the hold lingered a bit too long given Loki’s exclamation and slight jump. His cock, embarrassingly, swelled a bit in its hiding place as the fingers stroked, no doubt feeling for the quality of the gourd, hefting it to determine its weight—that sort of thing.

When the crowd dispersed, when Loki finally had hopes of determining the hand’s owner and giving them a piece of his mind—because the experience had been _very_ unpleasant altogether—he found the hand’s owner also had vanished, and he was left only with a stiff cock barely draped by a fragment of cloth.

He returned to Thor’s hut purely confused, but opted not to mention it to Thor. It had been an accident, after all.

The thing was, the “accidents” continued. Where once Loki had been able to walk freely through the village, he now found crowds gathering around him, quick as a flash, and first one hand, and then another, and then a—quite talented—palm embraced his cozy member, coaxed it out of its snug covering, and encouraged it to stand with no regard to how Loki objected with his little grunts and hip thrusts.

At first, it was but once every few days, and then perhaps every other day, then daily, and then … Well, then young Egrid approached him next to the furrier’s tent, eyes downcast and a deep blush on her face. He knew she had just come of age and was fast approaching her first mating … or marriage … Actually, he hadn’t quite determined how exactly that worked, yet, but the two acts didn’t seem to be completely interdependent in this peculiar village.

Anyway, Egrid clearly had a request, and when he heard it—

Well. He _was_ but a captive here, beholden to the hospitality of these people. All of them.

Even the young, prettily-blushing maids.

Thor walked around the corner just as Egrid’s dainty hand worked Loki to full hardness. At the look on Thor’s face, Loki knew he would be in for a terrible, well-conceived, and unforgettable birching that night. Egrid slipped away with a quick request for pardon, and Loki bit down a smile as Thor dragged him back to his tent, his inner thighs already a-tingle.

Instead, Thor spoke. Explained that, as the chieftain’s preferred mate, Loki was perceived by old village customs, by their superstitions, to have a special power over the, well—

“… over one’s prowess with one’s bedmate,” Thor concluded, his mouth settling into an unhappy line. Apparently, rubbing Loki’s genitals to arousal almost guaranteed (“according to one of our people’s more uncommon beliefs, and one of which I do not approve, Loki! _Loki_!” he snapped at Loki's dreamy face) that one would satisfy one’s lover in acts of physical pleasure.

In other words, Loki could expect much more of this fondling, squeezing, and tugging in the coming— _erm_ —days.

Loki felt a little flutter in his belly.

“I won’t have it!” Thor declared angrily, stomping his foot on the ground like a small child being forced to share his favorite toy, which was … an observation Loki would never make out loud. “I will call our people together tomorrow and make it known that I won’t have you in this position.” And that was that.

Well, no, it wasn’t, of course.

But, speaking of positions, Loki indeed ended up on the bed, on his back, receiving the terrible, well-conceived, and unforgettable birching he had hoped fo— that he had _been certain of_ outside the furrier’s, when he had seen the flames in Thor’s eyes.

(Egrid, incidentally, spent a lovely night with the furrier’s apprentice.)

So that is how Loki came to be standing on the dais the first time in this story. Thor’s irritated words echoed through the crowd as he stomped up and down the aisle, shaking his fist and occasionally pointing at Loki, who now wore—for no real reason Loki could ascertain—a thick leather collar around his neck. When he had been fitted for it that morning, Sverd, the leatherworker, had shown him the markings that nearly circumscribed the entire outer surface, and apparently translated into “PROPERTY OF THOR DO NOT TOUCH.”

It seemed a little overdone, given that he already wore the chieftain’s mark on the small, golden medallion that dangled from his nipple, but perhaps Thor was concerned about the nearsighted amongst his people.

The gathering dispersed, and, as far as Thor was concerned, the matter was closed.

The matter was not closed, Loki discovered the next day. Because what few villagers hadn’t previously been made aware of Loki’s status—or who hadn’t learned as children of the legend of the Chieftain’s Lover’s Rampant Cock—wanted to be sure to get theirs in. And so Loki again was subjected—with great unwillingness, he would want to have noted—to anonymous stroking in crowds, gentle cuppings of his balls, and even the occasional dextrous fingers tickling his taint. Loki was a young man, after all, and he couldn’t help the guaranteed appearance of his impressive erection, full-blooded and dewy-tipped and textured artfully with prominent veins, at this treatment.

It was maddening.

Just appallingly _maddening_ that the villagers were not respecting the word of their chief, for the gods’ sakes.

Thor’s face when Loki returned home the first time without waiting for his fullness to subside was awesome, indeed.

The next day, Loki was sent on a special errand. Thor handed him a wax-sealed envelope and instructed him to hurry forth to the metalsmith’s, and to wait while the ‘smith filled the order. Loki wasn’t absolutely certain he liked the unsettling sparkle in the chieftain’s eye, but he put it out of his mind as he waited for the finished, and yet mysterious, work on a rickety chair in the ‘smith’s expansive tent.

Finally, Bjurn reappeared—with the same peculiar sparkle Loki had seen on Thor.

That wasn’t good.

Bjurn gestured for Loki to stand, and then showed him a strange device, comprised almost entirely of metal rings, fixed into an inflexible curve. Bjurn’s accent was particularly heavy, and his dialect particularly rare, so Loki wasn’t entirely certain what he was being shown—or told—until …

Bjurn knelt on the ground, at Loki’s feet, and began to—

Oh, gods. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Loki suddenly, desperately, and retroactively understood Bjurn’s words. This device, which Loki’s quiescent but still plump cock and well-proportioned sac were being threaded into, would keep his sensitive flesh caged and unable to respond to all the, umm, “unwanted” handling he’d been subjected to in recent weeks. Loki glanced back down in time to see the rosy head, its foreskin carefully arranged, tugged through the narrowest ring, where it would allow him to relieve himself, but only in the one, less-interesting way, and would remain trapped until—

Bjurn set the lock in place, and held the key up for Loki to see. Explained, in some lengthy words, that he was to take the key directly to Thor and not—under any circumstances—be careless with it. He then attached the key to a loop and, for safekeeping, hung it from a similar metal circle on Loki’s collar. Loki’s protective cloth—now suddenly downgraded in priority, attire-wise—was set back in place, and Bjurn sent him off with a few perfunctory slaps to his ass and an order to find Thor in the village gathering circle.

As Loki walked, he could feel his flesh reacting to the constriction, almost as if his cock were attempting to survey the situation and finding itself immediately thwarted. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. This was astonishing.

And clearly soon to be maddening. Even _more_ maddening.

He found Thor in yet another gathering of the tribe, and yet again found himself on the dais, where he struggled not to wriggle at the precisely focused discomfort of his bound cock and balls. It was all he could think about!

Until, of course, Thor revealed Loki’s new adornment to the crowd at the climax, so to speak, of his speech.

Thor was immediately drowned out by the angry hisses from Egrid and the other freshly eligible maids in the back of the gathering, followed by the various male apprentices who, perhaps not coincidentally, were of the same age as the girls. But the hoots and hollers were not confined to the young and emphatic—Thor actually had to dodge a roll of clean bandages thrown by Ilsa, the crone who tended Loki’s bottom and thighs each night. The pipe-smoking men who had always seemed to merely enjoy the view actually stabbed their pointy mouthpieces at Thor as he stormed past to take Loki by the elbow and lead him from the angering mob.

It was all quite exciting. A little too exciting for Loki’s cock, which tried to surge at Thor’s rough handling and was, again, thwarted.

Loki squirmed on Thor’s lap that evening as the chieftain worked off his fury, rubbing Loki’s thighs and squeezing his calves and buttocks, pinching and twisting his tight little nipples, but not removing that infernal device. Eventually, Loki got Thor’s attention with an aggressive pout, and Thor’s tone at once turned—oh, no—teasing.

That frustrating, strong, capable hand found Loki’s tormented balls and began to stroke them. “Having a difficult day, are we?” Thor purred. “I am so sorry to have to do this to you, dear one, but it’s only long enough for the others to learn that you are not their plaything.” He nibbled on Loki’s neck, just above his own name on the collar, then whispered humidly in his ear, “You’re mine.”

He went on to open the lock, and then fit himself into Loki like he himself was the key.

It was splendid.

The infernal device went back on the next morning, and Loki’s scant cloth pouch over it, and he didn’t imagine the wistful looks of the maids, the apprentices, the pipe-smoking old men, the crones, or in fact any and all of the fuckable-aged souls in this village.

Thor had forgotten something, however.

In addition to the superstition of the Chieftain’s Lover’s Rampant Cock, there was another superstition: The Chieftain’s Lover’s Friendly Channel, which … while related, was almost entirely different.

For this tale told that, if one wanted to have good fortune—good skill—in activities the randy apprentices lewdly referred to as “back-door games,” one merely had to rub said chieftain’s lover in the—

Perhaps one can imagine.

But Loki didn’t have to imagine. He discovered it two days later, likely after the villagers had had the opportunity to build up a collective head of steam over the whole thing.

And so, the first time a finger slipped between his buttocks—again, in a crowd, and was Loki going to have to find a way to avoid crowds altogether? Even when they seemingly formed spontaneously around him?—he was a little surprised. But not as much as you might think. He’d lived in this village for half a year, all told.

It was all becoming rather rote.

Including Thor’s reaction when he came across Loki, braced against a tent pole and sighing happi— sighing in _resignation_ as a thick, oiled finger (belonging to Karl, the ever-talented sandal-maker) expertly bypassed the string that cleaved his buttocks and slipped inside his opening, thrusting smoothly and persuasively against his—

When he’d heard Thor’s angry exclamation this time, it had been a relief. He really needed that key.

And he’d gotten it, repeatedly and forcefully and expertly, through half of the night.

Someone apparently had reminded Thor of the whole “channel” thing. Unfortuna— oh, very, _very_ fortunately. Yes, that.

And that’s how Loki found himself at the ‘smith’s again, this time bent at the waist over a table, face buried in his crossed arms as Bjurn—and he truly felt he knew Bjurn quite well, at this point—fitted him for a new device. Not one to replace the rings and lock that embraced and imprisoned his ever-confused cock.

No, this time—Loki moaned—Bjurn was working a thick, tapered plug, his own special design, into Loki’s slicked hole.

It really was outrageous how—

“Oooooh,” Loki moaned, as the plug worked its way in to the flared base.

It really was out—

Another low, involuntary groan as Bjurn slid the plug back out.

Loki tried to focus. It was, indeed, outrageous that he was the one being subjected— _ooOOooOOooh!_ —being subjected to this torment when it was the strange superstitions of the village that needed to be corrected—

Loki’s entire body twisted in pleasu— automatic _reflex_ as the plug was finally, firmly seated, its slightly curved tip set to rest against that magical place inside that Thor rediscovered nightly. Loki panted and clawed at the wooden surface of the table, his cock really quite devastated at this turn of events.

Likewise devastated was the group of randy apprentices, all back-door enthusiasts, who saw him first as he stepped gingerly back through the village, his buttocks obviously spread and penetrated by the thick-ended object that just protruded under the ever-present string. The same object whose tapered, curved end sent, with every movement, the exact opposite signal from the restrictive cage trapping Loki’s weeping cock and overfull balls.

Loki’s voice quivered as he greeted the villagers.

He climbed Thor like a tree that night.

It was all to find release, of course, and release he did—once, twice, four times … Their bed was pungent and soaked with Loki’s fluids, and Thor breathed heavily next to him, a stunned look on his face, as he realized he probably would be sleeping in the wet spot, no matter what part of the mattress he lay on.

“Oh,” Thor said, after a moment’s contemplation.

Loki was still considering a fifth go.

And, incidentally, there was no longer, at that moment, a single untried maid or lad in the village, a fact only circumstantially related to Loki’s current situation.

How would this story end? Thor promised Loki his imprisonment and impalement would be done in short order, as soon as the stubborn villagers got this latest fad out of their systems. Loki pouted, and begged, and squirmed in Thor’s lap, and ruined their sheets, but Thor was his chieftain, and he accepted the pronouncement. After all, what else could he do? He was Thor’s captive, after all.

Then … Loki’s father turned up.

Laufey rode into the village square, one unseasonably warm fall day, followed by his guardsmen. The hubbub immediately warranted Thor’s attention—Loki was off gathering fungi in the woods, only occasionally stopping to adjust himself or shudder weakly and whimper against a tree trunk—and so would hear the beginnings of the story later.

Laufey alit from his horse, and immediately demanded the return of his precious son. The confrontation played out exactly as anyone would expect, with Thor refusing the demand and suggesting Laufey commit some act with “the horse you road in on” (which was right there and puzzled Laufey a bit, but Thor considered that a victory as well). The villagers heckled and jeered. Weapons were drawn …

And Loki hurried into the middle of the square, carrying his basket of mushrooms. And wearing his loincloth. And collar. And shiny little nipple piercing.

The situation didn’t improve at the outset.

But Loki finally persuaded Laufey to have his men stand down, and for Laufey to accompany Loki to the village alehouse for reunion and refreshment. As they found a table and got their mugs (Loki perching carefully, as some might say, between a cock and a hard place), Loki pretended he didn’t notice Thor lurking unhappily in a corner, just out of Laufey’s eyeline.

Loki described his treatment, from the first day, how he’d been well-fed and given clean clothing—well, _a_ clean clothing ... err, _cloth_ ... _one_ , and spoken to kindly, and occasionally, yes, chastised, and that his current situation was merely the result of misunderstood superstitions that Thor would clear up shortly. (For Laufey had, unfortunately, noticed the plug, and only reassured Loki that he was well-aged and had been around the glen a few times, and he had seen his fair share of villages that let their perverse flags fly in other ways. Still, Loki prayed to every god worshiped by his own people and these that his father would overlook the cage.)

And that Thor had been as gentle a captor as any one from Laufey’s tribe could wish for. (Barring the nightly birchings and occasional bed-breaking fuck, but parents didn’t have to know _everything._ )

Then Laufey announced that he was there to take Loki home, Loki merely fixed his father with a determined look and said, “No.”

Thor’s face, just visible in the corner of Loki’s eye, was that of a child having his favorite toy returned to him. Another apt comparison Loki would never utter aloud.

Laufey nodded, resigned, for he indeed was well-aged and had been around the glen a few times, and better understood the strange workings of a man’s heart. And the stranger workings of his loins.

They brought their reunion to an end, eventually, and Loki held his father’s weapon as he mounted his horse. (In future tellings, generations hence, that moment may be described in a different way.) He also pretended not to notice the disheveled hair, misdonned clothing, and various suck-marks on the guardsmen who accompanied him, nor the same on the villagers milling about with averted eyes.

Perhaps he had finally gotten used to this village.

And when Thor took him to bed that night—after a thorough, well-conceived, welcome-home birching, of course—he asked Loki if he wanted Thor to stow away those implements of torment, once and for all.

That Thor had a firm grip on the base of the plug, and was sliding its thick length in and out of Loki’s fluttering hole had no weight in Loki’s answer: “If you do, I will be forced to flog you!” he snapped immediately, pulling his legs up higher and feeling the pleasure building in his full, still-captive balls, swollen with the seed of many imminent spendings.

Thor chuckled, and kissed him, and resumed the torment.

Whatever the strange superstitions of this peculiar little village, Loki found he had become an enthusiastic believer.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at <http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com>.


End file.
